


Hiking in Lightning

by glinda4thegood



Category: Supernatural
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-13
Updated: 2011-02-13
Packaged: 2017-10-15 16:03:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/162508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glinda4thegood/pseuds/glinda4thegood





	Hiking in Lightning

_**FIC Supernatural: Hiking in Lightning**_  
Title: **Hiking in a lightning storm**  
Author: **Glinda**  
Rating: **NC17**  
Characters, pairing: Bobby Singer/Pamela Barnes  
Backstory on that big hug in Lazarus Rising

Pam picks up the shirt and wonders why she bought it.

She remembers looking at it in the store, touching the chamois fabric, the leather elbow patches. She thinks her missing boyfriend would never wear anything like it. When she gets to the checkout, the shirt is in her cart.

One of Grandma Nina's cryptic homilies floats to the surface of memory. _A good psychic can tell a sign from a salmon._ Pam buys the shirt, although the price makes her wonder what salmon is going for these days.

When Pam gets home, she places the shirt in a gift box. She cuts a length of gaudy paper covered with snowmen and wraps the box. Her small tree stands guard over two more presents. One box is from David, her current ex-boyfriend. The other box is from the Harvelles. She finds it in her morning mail, along with a greeting card, and an invitation to dinner on Christmas Eve.

It might be fun to go, she thinks, although her refrigerator is full of food in preparation for a Christmas meal she won't be serving David. Ellen and Jo are good people, and Christmas is a time to share, not hole up alone.

She picks up the phone and calls the Harvelles.

"Singer Salvage."

Pam stares at the number displayed on her phone. It is nothing like the Harvelle's number.

"Who is this?" His deep voice is rough with fatigue.

"Pamela Barnes."

Just like that she sees him. _He sits at a desk. Books surround him. He's got a half-empty bottle of whiskey on one side, a Colt on the other. He stares at the phone in his hand. Suspicion etches lines into his tired face._

"We met at the roadhouse," she says slowly, hoping for divine inspiration beyond a phone number.

"The psychic." _Bobby Singer glances at the Colt._ "You helped us find those missing kids."

"Yes." She doesn't know what to say. Her gift isn't being helpful. "I think I'm supposed to tell you something."

"I'm listening." _He picks up the Colt, looks at it and replaces it on the desk._

"Not on the phone," she improvises. "It's a bit of a drive from where you are, but can you be here tomorrow?"

"Christmas Eve?" _His face, his voice convey deepest reluctance and skepticism._ "I don't know you from a hole in the ground. Ellen says you're okay, but she thinks lots of folks is okay. There's snow coming."

"Fine with me." His attitude really pisses her off. "You just sit there, finish the whiskey and make sure you deep throat that gun. Nothing worse than friends having to care for a brain dead dipshit who can't properly kill himself."

 _He pushes back from the desk, looks around wildly._ "What the hell."

"Psychic, you asshat. This is no party for me, by the way." Beyond the visual, her gift refuses commentary. "Do you want directions, or not?"

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

She expects him by noon, but it's 2 p.m. before he knocks on her door. The weather is foul, blowing, drifting snow, and Pam doesn't even want to know the wind chill.

He dressed for weather, but stands stiffly by the door and rubs his hands. "Damn pickup heater isn't working," he says. He looks down the hallway toward the small living room, glimpses the small tree in front of the window. He looks away.

"Bobby Singer? Friends call me Pam." She takes his coat, hangs it on the coat tree by the door, and waits until he pries off his boots. "Coffee in the kitchen. And some of Grandma Nina's Christmas pie."

Her kitchen is warm and smells of turkey breast and stuffing. Pam pours coffee, and cuts him a large piece of pie.

"You won't mind." Bobby holds a silver knife and waits.

Pam cuts the heel of her hand. She smiles at the easing of his shoulders. "The coffee's made from holy water, just in case you think I'm a trusting soul."

He barks a laugh and sits in front of the pie. Two cups of coffee and a second piece of pie, and he looks warm, relaxed, and shrewdly interested in his surroundings.

"Thanks for the coffee. Great pie. So, why did I drive hours through a blizzard on Christmas Eve?"

"Damned if I know." She enjoys the look on his face. "Grandma Nina used to say being psychic is an art, not a science. Something wanted you to make the trip here. I figured when you showed up, things would get clearer."

"How's that working out?"

Impatient, sarcastic son-of-a-bitch, Pam diagnoses. She looks him over slowly, not reading him, just registering his presence. Mid-to-late-forties? Hard to tell with the mustache. Men get to a certain age, they just stay there for a while. Fucking unfair, that is. He looks like a real man, worn smooth on the edges. After David's pretty hair, pretty body, pretty mouth and weakness for pretty bank tellers, Pam thinks Bobby Singer is easy on the eyes. Character and intelligence trump pretty any day. Pam gives David's memory a mental finger flip.

"I can try a reading for you." She moves their cups and offers her hands. He takes them reluctantly. "Be still now."

This is familiar routine, although it's been a while. Pam closes her eyes and every odor in her kitchen seems richer, more tantalizing. She feels the texture of his calloused, work roughened fingers, feels the blood beat beneath his skin. Her stove ticks as the heating element kicks in. Blizzard winds blast a shrill tune around her back door. She floats on her senses, gives the infinite silence beneath a chance to talk.

It hits her, low in the stomach. Hopeless despair, loneliness, guilt. Loss on a scale she has never encountered. Pam wrenches her hands away.

"Fuck. Fuck. Fuck." She pushes back from the table, stands looking down at his narrowed eyes and puzzled face. "And that would be why I quit doing individual readings."

There's a new bottle of tequila in the cupboard. Pam cracks it open, pours herself a shot. She tosses it back, then fills a second shot glass. Bobby takes the glass, matches her through the third shot.

"That's better." Pam caps the bottle. "I'm not a damn psychiatrist, and you need one. The big old eight-ball says you want to off yourself. This is something I'd rather not be in the middle of, but I get a cosmic heads up, and now I have to deal."

He makes a noise, his hand clenches over the shot glass. "Nobody asked you to."

Pam laughs. The tequila is warm in her blood. "Fuck all you know about being psychic. I was born with this _gift_. When something comes across the wire, there's always a reason. There's always _someone_ asking. And ignoring requests isn't an option."

"Thanks again for the pie. I'll be on my way." He makes it to the hallway and puts on his boots before she follows.

"There's turkey in the oven. That truck won't start, and you might as well get a good meal, and a good night's sleep before you go back."

He pulls his coat on, surreptitiously pats the pocket to make sure his gun is still there. "We'll see."

He's back in fifteen minutes, red in the face and mad.

She looks at him and shrugs. "Psychic," she says. "You can peel potatoes."

They work together in the kitchen in silence. After the potatoes are peeled, Pam steers him to the couch. "Newspapers, magazines, books," she points. "Nap if you want. Dinner in about forty-five minutes."

When she checks on him after ten minutes, she finds him sleeping sitting upright.

Pam delays putting the potatoes on to cook. Two hours later she sets places on the table and begins to light candles. She finishes by plugging the tree lights into an extension cord. The living room glows.

"Bobby. Wake up."

He wakes up fast, on his guard. "Sorry. Fell asleep."

"No worries." She shows him the way to the bathroom.

When Bobby finds her in the kitchen, his face is closed, polite. He starts slow, but eats as if he hasn't had food in a while. They clean the kitchen in companionable silence, like they've done it a hundred times.

She collects tequila and glasses, and places them on the coffee table in front of the couch. "Sit at that end so you don't have to look at the tree," she says. "And that's not me being psychic, just me keeping my eyes open."

"I'm not much for Christmas." He pours tequila. "Great food. Thank you."

"Welcome." Pam raises her glass. "So. You tell me something about you, I'll tell you something about me. I'll even start."

He makes a noncommittal noise and slugs back the tequila.

"I just lost another boyfriend." Pam nods at his raised eyebrows. "Yeah. Another. Last week we're having sex in front of that tree, and I see him having sex with Priscilla Arbuthnot and Lainie Dulles -- two of the National bank tellers. I push him off me and demand an explanation. He freaks out and walks."

"Hard to explain." Bobby tries to hide a smile.

"It isn't the first time it's happened. I rarely get to tell people they're going to win the lottery, find love with a dark handsome stranger, or get to travel abroad on their dead aunt's estate money. Most of the time I get to tap into the minds of serial rapists, warn grannies about the bad intentions of grandchildren, and see who my boyfriend is screwing besides me." Pam stops, takes a deep breath. "Your turn."

"I'm still trying to get my head around the idea that any man would feel the need to screw another woman, if you were in the picture." He pours another shot. "I think about eating a bullet, I won't deny it. I think about doing lots of things, don't mean I'm going be able to do them."

She gets a little flash from him, grins. "Really? Cave diving?"

"Get the hell out." He's rattled, but the liquor has taken the edge off any outrage.

"My turn." Pam fills her own glass, tosses it back. "If I were really a _good_ psychic, I would have bought limes yesterday."

"Damn straight." His face relaxes into a more genuine, unhidden smile that lights his eyes, and changes his face dramatically.

"I was raised by my Grandma Nina. She had the gift, too, taught me everything I know about using it. I lost her two years ago. She was old, it was a natural death." The candles flicker a bit near the window as the wind blasts through the weatherstripping. "Every day I miss her, think I hear her out in the kitchen. She passed, but part of her is right here." Pam touches her chest. "Always will be."

Bobby shuts his eyes, smile submerges in grief. "You know Ellen. She tell you what I did?"

"No. I help hunters occasionally," she says carefully, "but I keep my distance."

"I'm not a hunter grown," he says, "I'm a hunter because a demon took my wife, and I had to kill her."

And there it is, Pam thinks, there it is.

  
He talks slowly, sketches the outline of his story. He leaves adjectives out of the narrative, keeps the words short and simple. It's like hearing someone who's been flayed alive in hell describe the experience by saying _poor accommodations, I wouldn't stay there again._

"That's bad." Pam stares past him at the Christmas tree. "Nothing I can say to help, we both know it. Here you are, walking around with guilt from what the demon did while it was inside her, and guilt from what you had to do to stop it. A right mother fucking bastard bad load to carry, Bobby."

He shifts, uncomfortable.

"We both know what I saw when I called you." Pam holds up her hand. "You copped to it. Normally, not my business -- although the loss of a good hunter is always a blow to the community. I keep my distance from them, but I know better than most how much Joe Citizen owes to hunters."

"Yeah. Fucking John Wayne, that's me."

He reaches toward the bottle. Pam stops the movement with her hand. It hits her again, square in the chest and between the eyes. A montage so complex and bewildering that Pam's conscious mind has only the most tenuous visual connection to the message. Bobby is the center of the vision, most often with young boys that grow to be men under his watchful eye. Hunters by the score touch the vision's fringe. All look to this man for knowledge and leadership.

"Pam?" He doesn't want her to say anything, but has to ask.

"Something, someone," she answers slowly, "really wants you to stay alive, Bobby Singer."

The wind chooses that moment to beat against the front window and howl like a cheap movie effect. The frame of the small house shudders.

"Going to be the worst storm of the winter." Bobby fills their glasses. "It's your turn."

They trade stories for a time. The stories are all funny, dirty or wryly self-revelatory, no horror or tragedy in the mix. He asks how she copes with unsolicited revelations and instructions showing up, out of the blue. Pam tells him a little of the gift, of Grandma Nina and her steady sanity.

"She told me early, there are three kinds of communication from the infinite. What I call _postcards_ are the most common, and innocuous. Messages like _having a good time don't forget to water the plants_. The e-mails are almost as frequent. I get headers like _your immediate response is required_ or _order has been shipped, inquire further for transit time._ Then there are _candy-grams._ "

He looks at her, squinting. "Like, candy-gram for . . ."

"Mongo." Pam laughs. "Exactly. Mel Brooks. When the sheriff impersonates Bugs Bunny and delivers the candy-gram to Mongo, the entire audience knows what's going to happen. After Mongo gets the shit blown out of him, you can tell by his face he's thinking -- _I should have known._ "

"Have you had the shit blown out of you?" He looks skeptical. "You're too young, there hasn't been time."

"I'm getting older by the minute, Bobby." She sees reluctant understanding in his eyes.

"You're saying I'm a candy-gram."

"I was thinking yes, but you've been downgraded to an e-mail." Pam hopes this reassurance is 100 percent true. "Now, dish me a little hunter gossip. What have you been working on?"

It's already Christmas when Pam notices the time. They both have a pretty good buzz on, and Pam thinks he'll be able to sleep. She brings him pillows and blankets, blows out the candles and unplugs the tree.

"Grandma Nina worked more wards and magic into the grounds and house than I'll ever know," she says when she sees his eyes on her window ledges. "I doubt salt would improve safety here. I know you've got the Colt in your coat, grab it if it makes you feel better, and there's the knife on your belt. Sleep well."

Pam goes upstairs to her small bedroom. She sleeps deeply, without interruptions from the infinite. When pressure on her bladder wakes her, gray light pushes past her shades.

The smell of fresh coffee fills the hall. Pam pees, rinses her face and mouth. She finds Bobby at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee and a book. He looks tired, but not trashed.

"How did you sleep?" Pam gets a cup for herself. "I went down like a brick."

"That's a good couch. I did okay."

"Merry Christmas."

Pam goes back into the living room, lights the candles, lights the tree. The snowman-covered box seems to vibrate with impatience. "Hey Bobby, come in here."

He looks at the box in her hands, shakes his head. "I ain't taking your boy friend's Christmas gift."

"Please." Pam tosses the box at him. Reflexively, he catches. "David was already gone when I bought that. Another postcard from the infinite directed the purchase."

He sits on the couch, unwraps the box. "Well." He looks at the shirt. "Thank you." He clears his throat and points at the remaining packages under the tree. "You going to open yours?"

Pam grabs the presents, sits next to him on the couch. "From Ellen and Jo," she reads the tag. There's a sturdy, nicely detailed ring-bound book inside, with a small volume of poetry. Pam pulls a note from the binder. " _Thought you could use a place to record all Grandma Nina's recipes. When you're done, let Jo copy it. She needs all the help she can get in the kitchen. Ellen._ "

"That's the truth," Bobby says. "We worked on pancakes for three years. The poetry's from Jo?"

"Yeah. Ellen's the most unromantic, practical woman I know. Jo's got a streak of romance a mile wide running through her soul." Pam opens the poetry, a small book of pictures and text. _if you listen / poems & photographs of the san juan mountains_. The main title makes her smile. "I hope she never loses it."

The book opens, seemingly of its own accord, to pages near the back. Jo must have spent time here, Pam thinks. She reads the first page to herself.

 _while hiking in a lightning storm_

"This is the way we learn how to survive," she reads aloud. "To stand beside the darkness, know temptation, want the ridgeline, stay below the highest trees, get on our knees and say _amen_."

"I'm getting tired of learning how to survive," Bobby says. But he relaxes against the back of the couch. "You got another present."

Pam holds the small box with the sense live scorpions might burst out. Giving isn't one of David's talents. When she tears the wrapping away, she laughs helplessly. Bobby's expression is priceless. He gives it up and joins her laughter.

"Red and green striped condoms," she manages. "Selfish dick."

Bobby wipes his eyes. "I'm sure he was only thinking of you."

Pam tosses the box back under the tree. "You go try that shirt on. Would you rather have pancakes or french toast for breakfast?"

"French toast? That'd be good."

Pam puts the old cast iron skillet on a low burner, then beats the eggs with vanilla, milk and a little cinnamon. She's putting the first slices into the pan when she hears him clear his throat.

"Fits fine." Color crawls under his beard and up his cheeks. "Nice shirt. Thank you."

The chamois color and leather patches suit him, she thinks. Suit him well. "Bobby Singer. It makes you look -- kind of academic, and dead sexy."

He blushes some more. "Hayseed professor," he says. "That's me."

Something touches her, low in her stomach. Pam turns the burner off. "Incoming," she mutters. The premonition is brief, but graphic, and has nothing to do with her gift.

"Pam? One of your postcards?"

She rinses her hands, dries them. "You could say that." She walks across the kitchen, points at a spot over his head. "Mistletoe."

He looks up, startled. "No . . ."

Pam runs a hand up the chamois fabric, steps solidly against his body, makes sure her breasts get good contact with his chest. "Somewhere in the infinite, there's mistletoe."

The kiss is awkward, but he doesn't pull back. Pam holds eye contact, touches the crow's feet at his eyes, rubs the beard along his cheeks. "That was a piss-poor kiss, Bobby Singer. I can't believe you don't know your way around a woman's mouth."

He shuts his eyes. His hands close carefully over her hipbones. When she takes his mouth again he makes an effort, and Pam loses track of everything except the brush of his mustache against her face, the pull and push of his lips.

"Good effort," she says, when the kiss ends. "I say we go back to the couch and crack open that box of condoms."

"I'm not one of _those_ hunters, girl," he says. "How old are you? You look like jail bait."

"Please. I'm more than legal in every state. And I've never made the offer to a hunter, although I got my cherry popped when I was sixteen by a hunter's kid." Pam laughs at his expression. "My choice."

She undresses first, then removes his clothes with quick, practiced efficiency that makes him laugh. He doesn't go in for the grope, or make an artistic production out of foreplay. He traces the line of her neck, shoulder, and breast with a slow gesture that ends just above her mons.

"You're a beautiful woman," he says. "Interesting tats."

Pam pushes him down on the couch, turns briefly so he can get a good look at all her tattoos. His body is like his face and hands, calloused and worn, but hard. Pam rolls the first condom over his cock, then straddles him and slowly impales herself on the cheerfully decorated erection. His eyes are fierce, lost as she moves. It feels like they've done this a hundred times, so often the mechanics of the act are simply a necessary prelude to achieve a familiar sense of sharing.

"I'm going to come," he says, from between clenched teeth. "Sorry."

"Asshat." Pam tightens around him, adjusts her angle and tries to keep him as far inside her body as is humanly possible. His fingers hold her hips with bruising force. She feels the change in his body the moment he lets go, waits until he's almost back to earth, then her own orgasm hits like a strike of lightning. When the full body rush dissipates, she opens her eyes to see an expression on his face that reactivates random spasms.

He pulls her down next to him. "I think _I_ just got a candy-gram," he says, after a few minutes.

"Umm." Pam doesn't get any visions as she touches his body, and that's good. The infinite has no more messages to deliver. "Definitely a candy-gram. And, just to be clear, you're an asshat for apologizing."

"I did get that." He strokes her hip and sighs. "There's only one thing missing."

"Really?" She rolls one of his nipples between her fingers. "Tell me what you want."

"A Daisy air rifle."

  


  


Christmas day passes. They cook, talk, and use up more of the condoms. Pam spends Christmas night on the couch next to him.

By morning the blizzard blows itself out, leaving a world of white behind. Bobby's truck decides to start, after a few minutes of persuasion. He returns to the house while it warms up.

"Here you go. Sandwiches and a thermos of coffee. You watch for ice." Pam hands him a plastic grocery bag and kisses his cheek. He's processing, not sure where they are with each other. "Any time you want to talk, pick up the phone. You need help with something, you pick up the phone."

There is relief in his eyes, and regret, too. Pam steps away. "Don't try to take it all on yourself, Bobby."

She thinks, for a moment, that he's going to pull her into his arms and kiss her. But he nods and takes the sandwiches. "I'm not too proud to get on my knees and say amen," he says. "You have a good New Year."

The house seems empty with him gone. Pam goes to the phone and carefully dials a number. "Hey! Ellen -- you up for a little company?"

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Bit o'poetry from _if you listen / poems and photographs of the san juan mountains, by rosemerry wahtola frommer and eileen benjamin_


End file.
